Chương Chương 4 · THE ADVENTURE OF THE SOLITARY CYCLIST

From the years 1894 to 1901 inclusive, Mr. Sherlock Holmes was a

very busy man. It is safe to say that there was no public case of

any difficulty in which he was not consulted during those eight

years, and there were hundreds of private cases, some of them of

the most intricate and extraordinary character, in which he

played a prominent part. Many startling successes and a few

unavoidable failures were the outcome of this long period of

continuous work. As I have preserved very full notes of all these

cases, and was myself personally engaged in many of them, it may

be imagined that it is no easy task to know which I should select

to lay before the public. I shall, however, preserve my former

rule, and give the preference to those cases which derive their

interest not so much from the brutality of the crime as from the

ingenuity and dramatic quality of the solution. For this reason I

will now lay before the reader the facts connected with Miss

Violet Smith, the solitary cyclist of Charlington, and the

curious sequel of our investigation, which culminated in

unexpected tragedy. It is true that the circumstance did not

admit of any striking illustration of those powers for which my

friend was famous, but there were some points about the case

which made it stand out in those long records of crime from which

I gather the material for these little narratives.

On referring to my notebook for the year 1895, I find that it was

upon Saturday, the 23rd of April, that we first heard of Miss

Violet Smith. Her visit was, I remember, extremely unwelcome to

Holmes, for he was immersed at the moment in a very abstruse and

complicated problem concerning the peculiar persecution to which

John Vincent Harden, the well-known tobacco millionaire, had been

subjected. My friend, who loved above all things precision and

concentration of thought, resented anything which distracted his

attention from the matter in hand. And yet, without a harshness

which was foreign to his nature, it was impossible to refuse to

listen to the story of the young and beautiful woman, tall,

graceful, and queenly, who presented herself at Baker Street late

in the evening, and implored his assistance and advice. It was

vain to urge that his time was already fully occupied, for the

young lady had come with the determination to tell her story, and

it was evident that nothing short of force could get her out of

the room until she had done so. With a resigned air and a

somewhat weary smile, Holmes begged the beautiful intruder to

take a seat, and to inform us what it was that was troubling her.

“At least it cannot be your health,” said he, as his keen eyes

darted over her, “so ardent a bicyclist must be full of energy.”

She glanced down in surprise at her own feet, and I observed the

slight roughening of the side of the sole caused by the friction

of the edge of the pedal.

“Yes, I bicycle a good deal, Mr. Holmes, and that has something

to do with my visit to you to-day.”

My friend took the lady’s ungloved hand, and examined it with as

close an attention and as little sentiment as a scientist would

show to a specimen.

“You will excuse me, I am sure. It is my business,” said he, as

he dropped it. “I nearly fell into the error of supposing that

you were typewriting. Of course, it is obvious that it is music.

You observe the spatulate finger-ends, Watson, which is common to

both professions? There is a spirituality about the face,

however”—she gently turned it towards the light—“which the

typewriter does not generate. This lady is a musician.”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, I teach music.”

“In the country, I presume, from your complexion.”

“Yes, sir, near Farnham, on the borders of Surrey.”

“A beautiful neighbourhood, and full of the most interesting

associations. You remember, Watson, that it was near there that

we took Archie Stamford, the forger. Now, Miss Violet, what has

happened to you, near Farnham, on the borders of Surrey?”

The young lady, with great clearness and composure, made the

following curious statement:

“My father is dead, Mr. Holmes. He was James Smith, who conducted

the orchestra at the old Imperial Theatre. My mother and I were

left without a relation in the world except one uncle, Ralph

Smith, who went to Africa twenty-five years ago, and we have

never had a word from him since. When father died, we were left

very poor, but one day we were told that there was an

advertisement in _The Times_, inquiring for our whereabouts. You

can imagine how excited we were, for we thought that someone had

left us a fortune. We went at once to the lawyer whose name was

given in the paper. There we met two gentlemen, Mr. Carruthers

and Mr. Woodley, who were home on a visit from South Africa. They

said that my uncle was a friend of theirs, that he had died some

months before in great poverty in Johannesburg, and that he had

asked them with his last breath to hunt up his relations, and see

that they were in no want. It seemed strange to us that Uncle

Ralph, who took no notice of us when he was alive, should be so

careful to look after us when he was dead, but Mr. Carruthers

explained that the reason was that my uncle had just heard of the

death of his brother, and so felt responsible for our fate.”

“Excuse me,” said Holmes. “When was this interview?”

“Last December—four months ago.”

“Pray proceed.”

“Mr. Woodley seemed to me to be a most odious person. He was for

ever making eyes at me—a coarse, puffy-faced, red-moustached

young man, with his hair plastered down on each side of his

forehead. I thought that he was perfectly hateful—and I was sure

that Cyril would not wish me to know such a person.”

“Oh, Cyril is his name!” said Holmes, smiling.

The young lady blushed and laughed.

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, Cyril Morton, an electrical engineer, and we

hope to be married at the end of the summer. Dear me, how _did_ I

get talking about him? What I wished to say was that Mr. Woodley

was perfectly odious, but that Mr. Carruthers, who was a much

older man, was more agreeable. He was a dark, sallow,

clean-shaven, silent person, but he had polite manners and a

pleasant smile. He inquired how we were left, and on finding that

we were very poor, he suggested that I should come and teach

music to his only daughter, aged ten. I said that I did not like

to leave my mother, on which he suggested that I should go home

to her every week-end, and he offered me a hundred a year, which

was certainly splendid pay. So it ended by my accepting, and I

went down to Chiltern Grange, about six miles from Farnham. Mr.

Carruthers was a widower, but he had engaged a lady housekeeper,

a very respectable, elderly person, called Mrs. Dixon, to look

after his establishment. The child was a dear, and everything

promised well. Mr. Carruthers was very kind and very musical, and

we had most pleasant evenings together. Every week-end I went

home to my mother in town.

“The first flaw in my happiness was the arrival of the

red-moustached Mr. Woodley. He came for a visit of a week, and

oh! it seemed three months to me. He was a dreadful person—a

bully to everyone else, but to me something infinitely worse. He

made odious love to me, boasted of his wealth, said that if I

married him I could have the finest diamonds in London, and

finally, when I would have nothing to do with him, he seized me

in his arms one day after dinner—he was hideously strong—and

swore that he would not let me go until I had kissed him. Mr.

Carruthers came in and tore him from me, on which he turned upon

his own host, knocking him down and cutting his face open. That

was the end of his visit, as you can imagine. Mr. Carruthers

apologized to me next day, and assured me that I should never be

exposed to such an insult again. I have not seen Mr. Woodley

since.

“And now, Mr. Holmes, I come at last to the special thing which

has caused me to ask your advice to-day. You must know that every

Saturday forenoon I ride on my bicycle to Farnham Station, in

order to get the 12:22 to town. The road from Chiltern Grange is

a lonely one, and at one spot it is particularly so, for it lies

for over a mile between Charlington Heath upon one side and the

woods which lie round Charlington Hall upon the other. You could

not find a more lonely tract of road anywhere, and it is quite

rare to meet so much as a cart, or a peasant, until you reach the

high road near Crooksbury Hill. Two weeks ago I was passing this

place, when I chanced to look back over my shoulder, and about

two hundred yards behind me I saw a man, also on a bicycle. He

seemed to be a middle-aged man, with a short, dark beard. I

looked back before I reached Farnham, but the man was gone, so I

thought no more about it. But you can imagine how surprised I

was, Mr. Holmes, when, on my return on the Monday, I saw the same

man on the same stretch of road. My astonishment was increased

when the incident occurred again, exactly as before, on the

following Saturday and Monday. He always kept his distance and

did not molest me in any way, but still it certainly was very

odd. I mentioned it to Mr. Carruthers, who seemed interested in

what I said, and told me that he had ordered a horse and trap, so

that in future I should not pass over these lonely roads without

some companion.

“The horse and trap were to have come this week, but for some

reason they were not delivered, and again I had to cycle to the

station. That was this morning. You can think that I looked out

when I came to Charlington Heath, and there, sure enough, was the

man, exactly as he had been the two weeks before. He always kept

so far from me that I could not clearly see his face, but it was

certainly someone whom I did not know. He was dressed in a dark

suit with a cloth cap. The only thing about his face that I could

clearly see was his dark beard. To-day I was not alarmed, but I

was filled with curiosity, and I determined to find out who he

was and what he wanted. I slowed down my machine, but he slowed

down his. Then I stopped altogether, but he stopped also. Then I

laid a trap for him. There is a sharp turning of the road, and I

pedalled very quickly round this, and then I stopped and waited.

I expected him to shoot round and pass me before he could stop.

But he never appeared. Then I went back and looked round the

corner. I could see a mile of road, but he was not on it. To make

it the more extraordinary, there was no side road at this point

down which he could have gone.”

Holmes chuckled and rubbed his hands. “This case certainly

presents some features of its own,” said he. “How much time

elapsed between your turning the corner and your discovery that

the road was clear?”

“Two or three minutes.”

“Then he could not have retreated down the road, and you say that

there are no side roads?”

“None.”

“Then he certainly took a footpath on one side or the other.”

“It could not have been on the side of the heath, or I should

have seen him.”

“So, by the process of exclusion, we arrive at the fact that he

made his way toward Charlington Hall, which, as I understand, is

situated in its own grounds on one side of the road. Anything

else?”

“Nothing, Mr. Holmes, save that I was so perplexed that I felt I

should not be happy until I had seen you and had your advice.”

Holmes sat in silence for some little time.

“Where is the gentleman to whom you are engaged?” he asked at

last.

“He is in the Midland Electrical Company, at Coventry.”

“He would not pay you a surprise visit?”

“Oh, Mr. Holmes! As if I should not know him!”

“Have you had any other admirers?”

“Several before I knew Cyril.”

“And since?”

“There was this dreadful man, Woodley, if you can call him an

admirer.”

“No one else?”

Our fair client seemed a little confused.

“Who was he?” asked Holmes.

“Oh, it may be a mere fancy of mine; but it had seemed to me

sometimes that my employer, Mr. Carruthers, takes a great deal of

interest in me. We are thrown rather together. I play his

accompaniments in the evening. He has never said anything. He is

a perfect gentleman. But a girl always knows.”

“Ha!” Holmes looked grave. “What does he do for a living?”

“He is a rich man.”

“No carriages or horses?”

“Well, at least he is fairly well-to-do. But he goes into the

city two or three times a week. He is deeply interested in South

African gold shares.”

“You will let me know any fresh development, Miss Smith. I am

very busy just now, but I will find time to make some inquiries

into your case. In the meantime, take no step without letting me

know. Good-bye, and I trust that we shall have nothing but good

news from you.”

“It is part of the settled order of Nature that such a girl

should have followers,” said Holmes, as he pulled at his

meditative pipe, “but for choice not on bicycles in lonely

country roads. Some secretive lover, beyond all doubt. But there

are curious and suggestive details about the case, Watson.”

“That he should appear only at that point?”

“Exactly. Our first effort must be to find who are the tenants of

Charlington Hall. Then, again, how about the connection between

Carruthers and Woodley, since they appear to be men of such a

different type? How came they _both_ to be so keen upon looking

up Ralph Smith’s relations? One more point. What sort of a

_ménage_ is it which pays double the market price for a governess

but does not keep a horse, although six miles from the station?

Odd, Watson—very odd!”

“You will go down?”

“No, my dear fellow, _you_ will go down. This may be some

trifling intrigue, and I cannot break my other important research

for the sake of it. On Monday you will arrive early at Farnham;

you will conceal yourself near Charlington Heath; you will

observe these facts for yourself, and act as your own judgment

advises. Then, having inquired as to the occupants of the Hall,

you will come back to me and report. And now, Watson, not another

word of the matter until we have a few solid stepping-stones on

which we may hope to get across to our solution.”

We had ascertained from the lady that she went down upon the

Monday by the train which leaves Waterloo at 9:50, so I started

early and caught the 9:13. At Farnham Station I had no difficulty

in being directed to Charlington Heath. It was impossible to

mistake the scene of the young lady’s adventure, for the road

runs between the open heath on one side and an old yew hedge upon

the other, surrounding a park which is studded with magnificent

trees. There was a main gateway of lichen-studded stone, each

side pillar surmounted by mouldering heraldic emblems, but

besides this central carriage drive I observed several points

where there were gaps in the hedge and paths leading through

them. The house was invisible from the road, but the surroundings

all spoke of gloom and decay.

The heath was covered with golden patches of flowering gorse,

gleaming magnificently in the light of the bright spring

sunshine. Behind one of these clumps I took up my position, so as

to command both the gateway of the Hall and a long stretch of the

road upon either side. It had been deserted when I left it, but

now I saw a cyclist riding down it from the opposite direction to

that in which I had come. He was clad in a dark suit, and I saw

that he had a black beard. On reaching the end of the Charlington

grounds, he sprang from his machine and led it through a gap in

the hedge, disappearing from my view.

A quarter of an hour passed, and then a second cyclist appeared.

This time it was the young lady coming from the station. I saw

her look about her as she came to the Charlington hedge. An

instant later the man emerged from his hiding-place, sprang upon

his cycle, and followed her. In all the broad landscape those

were the only moving figures, the graceful girl sitting very

straight upon her machine, and the man behind her bending low

over his handle-bar with a curiously furtive suggestion in every

movement. She looked back at him and slowed her pace. He slowed

also. She stopped. He at once stopped, too, keeping two hundred

yards behind her. Her next movement was as unexpected as it was

spirited. She suddenly whisked her wheels round and dashed

straight at him. He was as quick as she, however, and darted off

in desperate flight. Presently she came back up the road again,

her head haughtily in the air, not deigning to take any further

notice of her silent attendant. He had turned also, and still

kept his distance until the curve of the road hid them from my

sight.

I remained in my hiding-place, and it was well that I did so, for

presently the man reappeared, cycling slowly back. He turned in

at the Hall gates, and dismounted from his machine. For some

minutes I could see him standing among the trees. His hands were

raised, and he seemed to be settling his necktie. Then he mounted

his cycle, and rode away from me down the drive towards the Hall.

I ran across the heath and peered through the trees. Far away I

could catch glimpses of the old grey building with its bristling

Tudor chimneys, but the drive ran through a dense shrubbery, and

I saw no more of my man.

However, it seemed to me that I had done a fairly good morning’s

work, and I walked back in high spirits to Farnham. The local

house agent could tell me nothing about Charlington Hall, and

referred me to a well-known firm in Pall Mall. There I halted on

my way home, and met with courtesy from the representative. No, I

could not have Charlington Hall for the summer. I was just too

late. It had been let about a month ago. Mr. Williamson was the

name of the tenant. He was a respectable, elderly gentleman. The

polite agent was afraid he could say no more, as the affairs of

his clients were not matters which he could discuss.

Mr. Sherlock Holmes listened with attention to the long report

which I was able to present to him that evening, but it did not

elicit that word of curt praise which I had hoped for and should

have valued. On the contrary, his austere face was even more

severe than usual as he commented upon the things that I had done

and the things that I had not.

“Your hiding-place, my dear Watson, was very faulty. You should

have been behind the hedge, then you would have had a close view

of this interesting person. As it is, you were some hundreds of

yards away and can tell me even less than Miss Smith. She thinks

she does not know the man; I am convinced she does. Why,

otherwise, should he be so desperately anxious that she should

not get so near him as to see his features? You describe him as

bending over the handle-bar. Concealment again, you see. You

really have done remarkably badly. He returns to the house, and

you want to find out who he is. You come to a London house

agent!”

“What should I have done?” I cried, with some heat.

“Gone to the nearest public-house. That is the centre of country

gossip. They would have told you every name, from the master to

the scullery-maid. Williamson? It conveys nothing to my mind. If

he is an elderly man he is not this active cyclist who sprints

away from that young lady’s athletic pursuit. What have we gained

by your expedition? The knowledge that the girl’s story is true.

I never doubted it. That there is a connection between the

cyclist and the Hall. I never doubted that either. That the Hall

is tenanted by Williamson. Who’s the better for that? Well, well,

my dear sir, don’t look so depressed. We can do little more until

next Saturday, and in the meantime I may make one or two

inquiries myself.”

Next morning, we had a note from Miss Smith, recounting shortly

and accurately the very incidents which I had seen, but the pith

of the letter lay in the postscript:

“I am sure that you will respect my confidence, Mr. Holmes, when

I tell you that my place here has become difficult, owing to the

fact that my employer has proposed marriage to me. I am convinced

that his feelings are most deep and most honourable. At the same

time, my promise is of course given. He took my refusal very

seriously, but also very gently. You can understand, however,

that the situation is a little strained.”

“Our young friend seems to be getting into deep waters,” said

Holmes, thoughtfully, as he finished the letter. “The case

certainly presents more features of interest and more possibility

of development than I had originally thought. I should be none

the worse for a quiet, peaceful day in the country, and I am

inclined to run down this afternoon and test one or two theories

which I have formed.”

Holmes’s quiet day in the country had a singular termination, for

he arrived at Baker Street late in the evening, with a cut lip

and a discoloured lump upon his forehead, besides a general air

of dissipation which would have made his own person the fitting

object of a Scotland Yard investigation. He was immensely tickled

by his own adventures and laughed heartily as he recounted them.

“I get so little active exercise that it is always a treat,” said

he. “You are aware that I have some proficiency in the good old

British sport of boxing. Occasionally, it is of service; to-day,

for example, I should have come to very ignominious grief without

it.”

I begged him to tell me what had occurred.

“I found that country pub which I had already recommended to your

notice, and there I made my discreet inquiries. I was in the bar,

and a garrulous landlord was giving me all that I wanted.

Williamson is a white-bearded man, and he lives alone with a

small staff of servants at the Hall. There is some rumour that he

is or has been a clergyman, but one or two incidents of his short

residence at the Hall struck me as peculiarly unecclesiastical. I

have already made some inquiries at a clerical agency, and they

tell me that there _was_ a man of that name in orders, whose

career has been a singularly dark one. The landlord further

informed me that there are usually week-end visitors—‘a warm lot,

sir’—at the Hall, and especially one gentleman with a red

moustache, Mr. Woodley by name, who was always there. We had got

as far as this, when who should walk in but the gentleman

himself, who had been drinking his beer in the tap-room and had

heard the whole conversation. Who was I? What did I want? What

did I mean by asking questions? He had a fine flow of language,

and his adjectives were very vigorous. He ended a string of abuse

by a vicious backhander, which I failed to entirely avoid. The

next few minutes were delicious. It was a straight left against a

slogging ruffian. I emerged as you see me. Mr. Woodley went home

in a cart. So ended my country trip, and it must be confessed

that, however enjoyable, my day on the Surrey border has not been

much more profitable than your own.”

The Thursday brought us another letter from our client.

You will not be surprised, Mr. Holmes (said she), to hear

that I am leaving Mr. Carruthers’s employment. Even the high

pay cannot reconcile me to the discomforts of my situation.

On Saturday I come up to town, and I do not intend to return.

Mr. Carruthers has got a trap, and so the dangers of the

lonely road, if there ever were any dangers, are now over.

As to the special cause of my leaving, it is not merely the

strained situation with Mr. Carruthers, but it is the

reappearance of that odious man, Mr. Woodley. He was always

hideous, but he looks more awful than ever now, for he appears to

have had an accident and he is much disfigured. I saw him out of

the window, but I am glad to say I did not meet him. He had a

long talk with Mr. Carruthers, who seemed much excited

afterwards. Woodley must be staying in the neighbourhood, for he

did not sleep here, and yet I caught a glimpse of him again this

morning, slinking about in the shrubbery. I would sooner have a

savage wild animal loose about the place. I loathe and fear him

more than I can say. How _can_ Mr. Carruthers endure such a

creature for a moment? However, all my troubles will be over on

Saturday.

“So I trust, Watson, so I trust,” said Holmes, gravely. “There is

some deep intrigue going on round that little woman, and it is

our duty to see that no one molests her upon that last journey. I

think, Watson, that we must spare time to run down together on

Saturday morning and make sure that this curious and inclusive

investigation has no untoward ending.”

I confess that I had not up to now taken a very serious view of

the case, which had seemed to me rather grotesque and bizarre

than dangerous. That a man should lie in wait for and follow a

very handsome woman is no unheard-of thing, and if he has so

little audacity that he not only dared not address her, but even

fled from her approach, he was not a very formidable assailant.

The ruffian Woodley was a very different person, but, except on

one occasion, he had not molested our client, and now he visited

the house of Carruthers without intruding upon her presence. The

man on the bicycle was doubtless a member of those week-end

parties at the Hall of which the publican had spoken, but who he

was, or what he wanted, was as obscure as ever. It was the

severity of Holmes’s manner and the fact that he slipped a

revolver into his pocket before leaving our rooms which impressed

me with the feeling that tragedy might prove to lurk behind this

curious train of events.

A rainy night had been followed by a glorious morning, and the

heath-covered countryside, with the glowing clumps of flowering

gorse, seemed all the more beautiful to eyes which were weary of

the duns and drabs and slate greys of London. Holmes and I walked

along the broad, sandy road inhaling the fresh morning air and

rejoicing in the music of the birds and the fresh breath of the

spring. From a rise of the road on the shoulder of Crooksbury

Hill, we could see the grim Hall bristling out from amidst the

ancient oaks, which, old as they were, were still younger than

the building which they surrounded. Holmes pointed down the long

tract of road which wound, a reddish yellow band, between the

brown of the heath and the budding green of the woods. Far away,

a black dot, we could see a vehicle moving in our direction.

Holmes gave an exclamation of impatience.

“I have given a margin of half an hour,” said he. “If that is her

trap, she must be making for the earlier train. I fear, Watson,

that she will be past Charlington before we can possibly meet

her.”

From the instant that we passed the rise, we could no longer see

the vehicle, but we hastened onward at such a pace that my

sedentary life began to tell upon me, and I was compelled to fall

behind. Holmes, however, was always in training, for he had

inexhaustible stores of nervous energy upon which to draw. His

springy step never slowed until suddenly, when he was a hundred

yards in front of me, he halted, and I saw him throw up his hand

with a gesture of grief and despair. At the same instant an empty

dog-cart, the horse cantering, the reins trailing, appeared round

the curve of the road and rattled swiftly towards us.

“Too late, Watson, too late!” cried Holmes, as I ran panting to

his side. “Fool that I was not to allow for that earlier train!

It’s abduction, Watson—abduction! Murder! Heaven knows what!

Block the road! Stop the horse! That’s right. Now, jump in, and

let us see if I can repair the consequences of my own blunder.”

We had sprung into the dog-cart, and Holmes, after turning the

horse, gave it a sharp cut with the whip, and we flew back along

the road. As we turned the curve, the whole stretch of road

between the Hall and the heath was opened up. I grasped Holmes’s

arm.

“That’s the man!” I gasped.

A solitary cyclist was coming towards us. His head was down and

his shoulders rounded, as he put every ounce of energy that he

possessed on to the pedals. He was flying like a racer. Suddenly

he raised his bearded face, saw us close to him, and pulled up,

springing from his machine. That coal-black beard was in singular

contrast to the pallor of his face, and his eyes were as bright

as if he had a fever. He stared at us and at the dog-cart. Then a

look of amazement came over his face.

“Halloa! Stop there!” he shouted, holding his bicycle to block

our road. “Where did you get that dog-cart? Pull up, man!” he

yelled, drawing a pistol from his side pocket. “Pull up, I say,

or, by George, I’ll put a bullet into your horse.”

Holmes threw the reins into my lap and sprang down from the cart.

“You’re the man we want to see. Where is Miss Violet Smith?” he

said, in his quick, clear way.

“That’s what I’m asking you. You’re in her dog-cart. You ought to

know where she is.”

“We met the dog-cart on the road. There was no one in it. We

drove back to help the young lady.”

“Good Lord! Good Lord! What shall I do?” cried the stranger, in

an ecstasy of despair. “They’ve got her, that hell-hound Woodley

and the blackguard parson. Come, man, come, if you really are her

friend. Stand by me and we’ll save her, if I have to leave my

carcass in Charlington Wood.”

He ran distractedly, his pistol in his hand, towards a gap in the

hedge. Holmes followed him, and I, leaving the horse grazing

beside the road, followed Holmes.

“This is where they came through,” said he, pointing to the marks

of several feet upon the muddy path. “Halloa! Stop a minute!

Who’s this in the bush?”

It was a young fellow about seventeen, dressed like an ostler,

with leather cords and gaiters. He lay upon his back, his knees

drawn up, a terrible cut upon his head. He was insensible, but

alive. A glance at his wound told me that it had not penetrated

the bone.

“That’s Peter, the groom,” cried the stranger. “He drove her. The

beasts have pulled him off and clubbed him. Let him lie; we can’t

do him any good, but we may save her from the worst fate that can

befall a woman.”

We ran frantically down the path, which wound among the trees. We

had reached the shrubbery which surrounded the house when Holmes

pulled up.

“They didn’t go to the house. Here are their marks on the

left—here, beside the laurel bushes. Ah! I said so.”

As he spoke, a woman’s shrill scream—a scream which vibrated with

a frenzy of horror—burst from the thick, green clump of bushes in

front of us. It ended suddenly on its highest note with a choke

and a gurgle.

“This way! This way! They are in the bowling-alley,” cried the

stranger, darting through the bushes. “Ah, the cowardly dogs!

Follow me, gentlemen! Too late! too late! by the living Jingo!”

We had broken suddenly into a lovely glade of greensward

surrounded by ancient trees. On the farther side of it, under the

shadow of a mighty oak, there stood a singular group of three

people. One was a woman, our client, drooping and faint, a

handkerchief round her mouth. Opposite her stood a brutal,

heavy-faced, red-moustached young man, his gaitered legs parted

wide, one arm akimbo, the other waving a riding crop, his whole

attitude suggestive of triumphant bravado. Between them an

elderly, grey-bearded man, wearing a short surplice over a light

tweed suit, had evidently just completed the wedding service, for

he pocketed his prayer-book as we appeared, and slapped the

sinister bridegroom upon the back in jovial congratulation.

“They’re married!” I gasped.

“Come on!” cried our guide, “come on!” He rushed across the

glade, Holmes and I at his heels. As we approached, the lady

staggered against the trunk of the tree for support. Williamson,

the ex-clergyman, bowed to us with mock politeness, and the

bully, Woodley, advanced with a shout of brutal and exultant

laughter.

“You can take your beard off, Bob,” said he. “I know you, right

enough. Well, you and your pals have just come in time for me to

be able to introduce you to Mrs. Woodley.”

Our guide’s answer was a singular one. He snatched off the dark

beard which had disguised him and threw it on the ground,

disclosing a long, sallow, clean-shaven face below it. Then he

raised his revolver and covered the young ruffian, who was

advancing upon him with his dangerous riding-crop swinging in his

hand.

“Yes,” said our ally, “I _am_ Bob Carruthers, and I’ll see this

woman righted, if I have to swing for it. I told you what I’d do

if you molested her, and, by the Lord! I’ll be as good as my

word.”

“You’re too late. She’s my wife.”

“No, she’s your widow.”

His revolver cracked, and I saw the blood spurt from the front of

Woodley’s waistcoat. He spun round with a scream and fell upon

his back, his hideous red face turning suddenly to a dreadful

mottled pallor. The old man, still clad in his surplice, burst

into such a string of foul oaths as I have never heard, and

pulled out a revolver of his own, but, before he could raise it,

he was looking down the barrel of Holmes’s weapon.

“Enough of this,” said my friend, coldly. “Drop that pistol!

Watson, pick it up! Hold it to his head. Thank you. You,

Carruthers, give me that revolver. We’ll have no more violence.

Come, hand it over!”

“Who are you, then?”

“My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

“Good Lord!”

“You have heard of me, I see. I will represent the official

police until their arrival. Here, you!” he shouted to a

frightened groom, who had appeared at the edge of the glade.

“Come here. Take this note as hard as you can ride to Farnham.”

He scribbled a few words upon a leaf from his notebook. “Give it

to the superintendent at the police-station. Until he comes, I

must detain you all under my personal custody.”

The strong, masterful personality of Holmes dominated the tragic

scene, and all were equally puppets in his hands. Williamson and

Carruthers found themselves carrying the wounded Woodley into the

house, and I gave my arm to the frightened girl. The injured man

was laid on his bed, and at Holmes’s request I examined him. I

carried my report to where he sat in the old tapestry-hung

dining-room with his two prisoners before him.

“He will live,” said I.

“What!” cried Carruthers, springing out of his chair. “I’ll go

upstairs and finish him first. Do you tell me that that angel, is

to be tied to Roaring Jack Woodley for life?”

“You need not concern yourself about that,” said Holmes. “There

are two very good reasons why she should, under no circumstances,

be his wife. In the first place, we are very safe in questioning

Mr. Williamson’s right to solemnize a marriage.”

“I have been ordained,” cried the old rascal.

“And also unfrocked.”

“Once a clergyman, always a clergyman.”

“I think not. How about the license?”

“We had a license for the marriage. I have it here in my pocket.”

“Then you got it by trick. But, in any case a forced marriage is

no marriage, but it is a very serious felony, as you will

discover before you have finished. You’ll have time to think the

point out during the next ten years or so, unless I am mistaken.

As to you, Carruthers, you would have done better to keep your

pistol in your pocket.”

“I begin to think so, Mr. Holmes, but when I thought of all the

precaution I had taken to shield this girl—for I loved her, Mr.

Holmes, and it is the only time that ever I knew what love was—it

fairly drove me mad to think that she was in the power of the

greatest brute and bully in South Africa—a man whose name is a

holy terror from Kimberley to Johannesburg. Why, Mr. Holmes,

you’ll hardly believe it, but ever since that girl has been in my

employment I never once let her go past this house, where I knew

the rascals were lurking, without following her on my bicycle,

just to see that she came to no harm. I kept my distance from

her, and I wore a beard, so that she should not recognize me, for

she is a good and high-spirited girl, and she wouldn’t have

stayed in my employment long if she had thought that I was

following her about the country roads.”

“Why didn’t you tell her of her danger?”

“Because then, again, she would have left me, and I couldn’t bear

to face that. Even if she couldn’t love me, it was a great deal

to me just to see her dainty form about the house, and to hear

the sound of her voice.”

“Well,” said I, “you call that love, Mr. Carruthers, but I should

call it selfishness.”

“Maybe the two things go together. Anyhow, I couldn’t let her go.

Besides, with this crowd about, it was well that she should have

someone near to look after her. Then, when the cable came, I knew

they were bound to make a move.”

“What cable?”

Carruthers took a telegram from his pocket.

“That’s it,” said he.

It was short and concise:

The old man is dead.

“Hum!” said Holmes. “I think I see how things worked, and I can

understand how this message would, as you say, bring them to a

head. But while you wait, you might tell me what you can.”

The old reprobate with the surplice burst into a volley of bad

language.

“By heaven!” said he, “if you squeal on us, Bob Carruthers, I’ll

serve you as you served Jack Woodley. You can bleat about the

girl to your heart’s content, for that’s your own affair, but if

you round on your pals to this plain-clothes copper, it will be

the worst day’s work that ever you did.”

“Your reverence need not be excited,” said Holmes, lighting a

cigarette. “The case is clear enough against you, and all I ask

is a few details for my private curiosity. However, if there’s

any difficulty in your telling me, I’ll do the talking, and then

you will see how far you have a chance of holding back your

secrets. In the first place, three of you came from South Africa

on this game—you Williamson, you Carruthers, and Woodley.”

“Lie number one,” said the old man; “I never saw either of them

until two months ago, and I have never been in Africa in my life,

so you can put that in your pipe and smoke it, Mr. Busybody

Holmes!”

“What he says is true,” said Carruthers.

“Well, well, two of you came over. His reverence is our own

homemade article. You had known Ralph Smith in South Africa. You

had reason to believe he would not live long. You found out that

his niece would inherit his fortune. How’s that—eh?”

Carruthers nodded and Williamson swore.

“She was next of kin, no doubt, and you were aware that the old

fellow would make no will.”

“Couldn’t read or write,” said Carruthers.

“So you came over, the two of you, and hunted up the girl. The

idea was that one of you was to marry her, and the other have a

share of the plunder. For some reason, Woodley was chosen as the

husband. Why was that?”

“We played cards for her on the voyage. He won.”

“I see. You got the young lady into your service, and there

Woodley was to do the courting. She recognized the drunken brute

that he was, and would have nothing to do with him. Meanwhile,

your arrangement was rather upset by the fact that you had

yourself fallen in love with the lady. You could no longer bear

the idea of this ruffian owning her?”

“No, by George, I couldn’t!”

“There was a quarrel between you. He left you in a rage, and

began to make his own plans independently of you.”

“It strikes me, Williamson, there isn’t very much that we can

tell this gentleman,” cried Carruthers, with a bitter laugh.

“Yes, we quarreled, and he knocked me down. I am level with him

on that, anyhow. Then I lost sight of him. That was when he

picked up with this outcast padre here. I found that they had set

up housekeeping together at this place on the line that she had

to pass for the station. I kept my eye on her after that, for I

knew there was some devilry in the wind. I saw them from time to

time, for I was anxious to know what they were after. Two days

ago Woodley came up to my house with this cable, which showed

that Ralph Smith was dead. He asked me if I would stand by the

bargain. I said I would not. He asked me if I would marry the

girl myself and give him a share. I said I would willingly do so,

but that she would not have me. He said, ‘Let us get her married

first and after a week or two she may see things a bit

different.’ I said I would have nothing to do with violence. So

he went off cursing, like the foul-mouthed blackguard that he

was, and swearing that he would have her yet. She was leaving me

this week-end, and I had got a trap to take her to the station,

but I was so uneasy in my mind that I followed her on my bicycle.

She had got a start, however, and before I could catch her, the

mischief was done. The first thing I knew about it was when I saw

you two gentlemen driving back in her dog-cart.”

Holmes rose and tossed the end of his cigarette into the grate.

“I have been very obtuse, Watson,” said he. “When in your report

you said that you had seen the cyclist as you thought arrange his

necktie in the shrubbery, that alone should have told me all.

However, we may congratulate ourselves upon a curious and, in

some respects, a unique case. I perceive three of the county

constabulary in the drive, and I am glad to see that the little

ostler is able to keep pace with them, so it is likely that

neither he nor the interesting bridegroom will be permanently

damaged by their morning’s adventures. I think, Watson, that in

your medical capacity, you might wait upon Miss Smith and tell

her that if she is sufficiently recovered, we shall be happy to

escort her to her mother’s home. If she is not quite convalescent

you will find that a hint that we were about to telegraph to a

young electrician in the Midlands would probably complete the

cure. As to you, Mr. Carruthers, I think that you have done what

you could to make amends for your share in an evil plot. There is

my card, sir, and if my evidence can be of help in your trial, it

shall be at your disposal.”

In the whirl of our incessant activity, it has often been

difficult for me, as the reader has probably observed, to round

off my narratives, and to give those final details which the

curious might expect. Each case has been the prelude to another,

and the crisis once over, the actors have passed for ever out of

our busy lives. I find, however, a short note at the end of my

manuscript dealing with this case, in which I have put it upon

record that Miss Violet Smith did indeed inherit a large fortune,

and that she is now the wife of Cyril Morton, the senior partner

of Morton & Kennedy, the famous Westminster electricians.

Williamson and Woodley were both tried for abduction and assault,

the former getting seven years and the latter ten. Of the fate of

Carruthers, I have no record, but I am sure that his assault was

not viewed very gravely by the court, since Woodley had the

reputation of being a most dangerous ruffian, and I think that a

few months were sufficient to satisfy the demands of justice.

Adventure 5.